


Lies of Omission

by helens78



Series: Trip Stumble Fall [4]
Category: due South
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Seduction, grudge sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-16
Updated: 2010-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:58:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Fraser has the chance to spend a little bit of quality time getting to know Ray's new boyfriend, he jumps at the chance.  Andrew jumps at the chance, too, but maybe that wasn't such a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies of Omission

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Trip Stumble Fall series, so this is whole great big worlds of dark.

Hartman. Hartman makes Fraser insane. He's very much aware that the way he's acting, the way he's _breathing_ , even, all the thoughts careening around his head--these are not the actions and thoughts or even the body language of a man whose bag of marbles is intact.

But looking at Hartman with Ray, watching Hartman smile at him and laugh at him--and worse yet, seeing Ray smile back, laugh in response, spend precious seconds without the bleak grey cloud that's taken up residence above Fraser's head--something about it is more than Fraser can stand. More than he should be _asked_ to stand.

Dewey has a birthday coming up, and since he's no longer employed at the 27th precinct, he invites everyone to the comedy club. Well, everyone but Detective Huey, but he and Huey aren't on speaking terms anymore, Fraser hears; apparently the dissolution of their partnership was as bitter as the dissolution of Fraser's with Ray. For different reasons, perhaps, but no less ugly.

Fraser looks at Hartman, wonders whether Hartman's going to be at the club tonight. He hopes so. Oh, he really does hope so.

Vecchio waves a hand in front of Fraser's face. "Hey. Earth to Mountiesville. WoooOOOooooOOoo..." The siren noise isn't exactly required, but at least Fraser looks at Vecchio and sighs.

"Yes, Ray?"

"Help me out here. We apprehended the suspect at the corner of, what was it, 19th and Louisville--"

"19th and Jefferson," Fraser corrects him automatically. He focuses on Ray's paperwork for a few seconds; he can make it ten seconds without looking over at Ray and Hartman. He can even make it fifteen.

After fifteen seconds ( _fourteen one thousand, fifteen one thousand_ ), he looks up again. Hartman and Ray are standing, and Hartman grabs his suit jacket off the back of his chair. He and Ray are standing close together, smiling, and Fraser can see Ray's mouth form the words _Nah, we oughta save up an appetite for the club tonight._ He can't see what Hartman says in response, but Ray responds with _Not that kinda appetite, geez, buddy. C'mon._

Diefenbaker comes up, rests a paw on Fraser's knee, and licks him on the back of the hand. Fraser unclenches his fists and nods down at Diefenbaker.

"Yes, I _do_ think it's rude to use former terms of affection associated with one partner with a new one, and I'm glad you agree," he murmurs. Vecchio looks up and frowns at Fraser, but Fraser ignores the look. "Did you need any more help?"

"No, I'm good. I think we're about ready to wrap up for the night."

"Good. Fine. Then I'll see you at Dewey's tonight."

"Yeah, Stella's gonna be there, too." Vecchio leans back in his chair and scratches his cheek. "Fraser--"

Fraser raises both eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Just--not tonight with Kowalski, okay?" he says quietly. "Give it a rest just this one time."

"I really don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about, Ray," Fraser says, turning his hat around and around in his hands. "I'll see you tonight."

"Fine." Vecchio rubs both hands over his face. "Fine. _Fine._ I'll see you then."

Diefenbaker falls into step beside him as he leaves the 27th, and Fraser reaches down and scratches behind his ears. "I don't know why _you're_ so opposed to the comedy club," he murmurs to Dief. "You're _deaf_ \--it's not like you can hear the bad jokes. Still, you can certainly stay home if you'd like."

Dief makes a disgruntled sound, but a few hours later when it's time to leave, Fraser leaves alone.

* * *

Vecchio was telling the truth about Stella's presence; she's at the comedy club with Vecchio, grinning at him as though the honeymoon hasn't been over for months. Fraser shakes his head and avoids both of them, along with Ray, who's standing there talking to Stella and looking--

Well. Fraser isn't going to call that expression _happy_ , but he's talking to Stella, and for the first time Fraser can recall, he doesn't look conflicted while he does it. He's even smiling. He looks relaxed.

His eyes skitter over Fraser and then land solidly back on Stella, and Vecchio glances back, one corner of his mouth turning down when he sees Fraser. Fraser exhales sharply through his nose and keeps going; he already knew Ray wouldn't want to see him, he doesn't think Stella has much love for him, either, but Vecchio--the hell with it. If he's not welcome with any of them, he'll find someplace here where he is.

And somehow he isn't surprised when Hartman waves him over. The man's relentlessly upbeat; it's as if he hasn't even noticed Fraser giving him looks that, were they solid physical blasts of force, would have defenestrated him six or seven times over by now.

He sits down at Hartman's table and nods politely. "Detective Hartman."

"Andrew. Please." Hartman offers Fraser his hand; Fraser shakes it, because there's not much else to do with it.

Hartman's quite warm to the touch, but not sweating. It's a not-unpleasant sensation, shaking hands with him. Fraser raises an eyebrow and sits back. Unexpected. But interesting.

"Andrew, then," Fraser says slowly. "I see you've lost your partner for the evening."

"For now, yeah," Hartman says. He nods over at Ray; Fraser turns, because he's an emotional _masochist_ , because he's a _damned idiot_ , and he sees Ray's big, broad, _I wanna get out of here and fuck you_ grin alight upon Hartman for a split-second.

He notices Fraser there, too, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth, straightening up, frowning. Stella and Vecchio turn to look, too, and Vecchio's face twists, and Stella sighs and puts her hand on Vecchio's back, and turns very deliberately back to the two Rays, saying something that gets both of their attention off the table.

"Ouch," Hartman says, and Fraser looks at him, but Hartman doesn't look sympathetic to _Fraser_ \--instead, he's got a real look of self-pity on his face. Not the brightest bulb in the light display, then. "I guess I've got a ways to go before the ex can stand to deal with me, huh?"

Fraser tilts his head a little, looking at Hartman.

He doesn't _know_.

He--the last time Fraser had Ray, he left bruises so Hartman wouldn't be able to _avoid_ knowing. So there'd be no doubt who Ray _really_ belonged to. Belonged with.

All that and he still doesn't know.

Fraser gives Hartman his second-best smile, and he leans forward and says, "Believe me, I certainly understand. I wouldn't worry."

"No?"

"I'm sure how Detective Kowalski's _ex_ feels about you won't be relevant much longer. Indeed, it'll probably be a moot point by the end of the evening."

Hartman laughs. "I don't suppose you want to lay some odds on that."

Fraser just keeps smiling. "Oh, I'm not a betting man, really." He nods down at Hartman's glass, which is mostly empty by now. "Can I buy you another drink?"

* * *

Fraser sticks to ginger ale while Hartman has his second and then third whiskey sour of the night. Around the time he's finishing it, Vecchio and Stella and Ray make their way to the table, where Vecchio and Stella take the two open seats and then Ray grabs another chair and wedges himself between Hartman and Fraser.

"So, ah, what's been going on over here since I've been gone?" Ray asks. "Anything I should know about?"

"Fraser here is claiming that Canadian whiskey beats the hell out of American whiskey, and I personally have been calling him a _liar_ ," Hartman says, grinning at Ray. Ray glances back at Fraser, and his face slides into a smirk; Fraser just looks blankly back at him.

"Yeah, well, he'd just tell you Mounties don't lie," Ray says. "But you ask him about lies of omission sometime, he won't have much to say about _that_."

"Knock it off, Kowalski," Vecchio says mildly. "C'mon, we're all here to wish Dewey a happy birthday, right?"

"Oh, right, hey. Nothing. Didn't mean a thing. Just that he might've left something out, like that some Canadian whiskeys aren't worth much."

"Well, I suppose any variety of anything has its bottom ten percent," Fraser admits readily. "But perhaps this is a case where a simple taste-test would settle the matter neatly?"

"Uh," Ray says, blinking, "well--you guys have fun with that, then. I'm driving tonight."

"Sure, great," Hartman says. He stands up, and Fraser stands up with him--now there's a stroke of good fortune Fraser hadn't counted on--and he and Fraser head for the bar. The bar's stocked with several different kinds of whiskey, including Glen Breton Rare, and Fraser has the bartender line up a half-dozen shots in front of the two of them.

"Kowalski's gonna have to roll me out of here by the time I'm through with all this," Hartman laughs. "But you're splitting it with me, right?"

"Of course," Fraser says. He takes the first whiskey, the Tennessee, in hand, as does Hartman, and he waits until Hartman's drinking before he slides the shot glass away from him, pushing it slightly down the bar and turning to block Hartman's view of it.

"Okay," Hartman says, "beat _that_."

Shot number two is Irish; Fraser doesn't bother with it, either, but he makes it disappear behind his arm again. The bartender shoots him an odd look; Fraser ignores it. "Nah," Hartman says. "Not much compared to Tennessee. I was born there, y'know."

"I didn't know that," Fraser says, reaching out to steady Hartman. He leaves his hand on Hartman's arm when he's done, and Hartman leans a little closer.

"Kowalski," Hartman says softly--Fraser can smell the alcohol all over his breath, now, and it's good, it's just where he wants him. "Kowalski never talks about you. But you were his partner, huh?"

"For almost two years."

"He tell you he was--that he does--" Hartman leans in very close, _very_ close. "'Cause maybe he didn't _know_ about you, you know what I'm saying, but you set my radar off like a fucking _cyclone_."

Fraser blinks--he wasn't expecting the radar metaphor to end in weather, somehow--but he nods, just enough to brush his cheek gently against Hartman's. "You're not wrong," Fraser murmurs. Not wrong about Fraser, anyway, not wrong about the part that's setting his radar off, or perhaps gaydar is the more appropriate term. He might be wrong about Ray knowing--oh, so very, very wrong--but Kowalski did warn Hartman at the table.

Lies of omission. It's really not even Fraser's lie. Ray's the one who hasn't told Hartman what they were to each other. What they _are_.

"Okay, last one," Hartman says, and he tastes the Canadian whiskey, and this time Fraser indulges, too, letting the warmth and sharpness slam through his senses. He doesn't really care for whiskey any more than he cares for any other hard liquor, but if he has this drink, if Hartman watches him take the drink, he'll have the excuse. He needs the excuse.

Hartman's now five drinks in, barely two hours into the evening. Fraser almost sneers; apparently Ray's new partner has a problem controlling himself around temptation.

Good. _Good._

When Hartman sways on his feet, Fraser's there to catch him. He starts pulling Hartman toward the bathroom, and Hartman goes along with it, only stumbling a little. He leans more and more of his weight on Fraser as he gets there, and once they make it into the restroom, Fraser guides him back to the furthest stall, the handicapped stall, and leans Hartman against the wall.

"Hey," Hartman says fuzzily, grinning at Fraser. "I was _right_ about you."

"Oh, yes." Fraser reaches out and gently slips his hands under Hartman's jacket, feels him up from his waist to his chest and back down again. "Yes, Andrew, you were right about me."

"Cool. It's cool. Me and Ray, we're--you know, we both, both of us. I mean, girls, too, but--he's so _cute_ when he's got a new toy, you know?"

Fraser forces himself to keep smiling. "Yes," he murmurs. "I know."

"And man, the first time he went down on me I about _died_ , we were on a stakeout, I thought I was going _nuts_ \--"

 _The GTO is cooling off more and more; Ray offers to turn the heat on, but Fraser shakes his head and points out he doesn't need it. Ray grins over at him. "Yeah, I know lots of ways to keep you warm. Hey, hold still a second." And it isn't until he puts his hand on Fraser's fly that Fraser realizes what he's doing, and by then it's too late to stop him, and he just watches the house and rocks up, gentle, slow, wondering if it's been minutes or hours, while Ray keeps him on the edge, keeps him from coming, again and again until Fraser starts to beg..._

"He won't mind this," Fraser murmurs, leaning in, pressing his lips to the side of Hartman's neck. "He'll understand." He nips at Hartman's ear; Hartman finally gets a lazy, limp arm around Fraser's back and squeezes him in return. "He'd do it himself if he knew," Fraser breathes, and Hartman laughs.

"Yeah," Hartman moans, "yeah, he would," and oh, Hartman really has no idea, none whatsoever, but now Fraser just-- _wants_. This is what Ray does when he goes home, this is the body he takes, this is the man who's been inside Ray, the man Ray's sucked off, _this man_ , and Fraser growls softly and grabs Hartman by the upper arms.

"Andrew," Fraser whispers, hot against Hartman's ear. "Andrew... do you want me?" He presses his thigh against Hartman's cock; oh, yes, Andrew wants him. "Do you want me to fuck you?" Hartman groans. "Can I fuck you, Andrew?"

He keeps nuzzling Hartman's neck; Hartman groans again. "Yeah," he whispers, "yeah, yeah, yeah, c'mon, oh yeah--"

Fraser doesn't waste any time. He unbuckles Hartman's belt, undoes his fly, and then he shoves Hartman around, pushing him up against the wall. He's kinder than he is when he does this to Ray; he helps Hartman get his arms up so he'll have something to brace himself against. But Hartman's not complaining, anyway, not cursing at him the way Ray always does now. He just sticks his ass out and spreads his legs and waits.

Fraser pulls the lube packet and the condom out of his jeans. He put them in his pocket thinking about Ray, thinking he could use these to fuck Ray tonight--and he's still thinking of Ray now, still thinking about fucking Ray. If not directly, then like this--oh, yes, he can do it like this.

He slicks his fingers with the lube and then slides his fingers into Hartman, and Hartman moans just a little. "Good?" Fraser murmurs. "Does it feel good, Andrew? Do you want me to fuck you?"

"Ye--essss," Hartman whispers. "Yes, _yeah_ , Frase, yeah--"

Fraser gets the condom on and drops the wrapper to the floor; he angles himself, plants his feet, and waits. "Andrew," he breathes. "Can I fuck you?"

" _Yes_ ," Hartman growls, "c'mon, _do it_."

And Fraser does.

He's fast, rough, even angry, and he drives in deep with his first thrust. Hartman gasps out something--loud, too loud, so Fraser reaches up and presses his hand over Hartman's mouth. Hartman groans even louder, but when Fraser tries to take his hand away--he said _yes_ , Hartman said _yes_ , Fraser doesn't want to keep going if that _yes_ is turning into a _no_ , what would that prove?--Hartman shakes his head and shoves Fraser's hand right back into place.

Oh. It's not about saying no--it's just Hartman knowing that he's loud when he's getting reamed.

That's rather different.

Fraser holds onto Hartman's face with one hand, his hip with the other, and he just lets himself go--fast, rough, demanding strokes, one after another after another, and when Hartman goes a little limp in his hands, sags a little against the wall, Fraser tightens his grip and goes all the faster for it. He bites at the back of Hartman's neck.

"He's _mine_ ," Fraser snarls. "He's mine. He's not yours. _Mine_."

Hartman starts to say something--Fraser can hear the startlement in his voice--but then Fraser drops his hand to Hartman's cock and starts jerking him off, and Hartman stops saying whatever it was he was trying to say. Fraser waits for it, waits until Hartman lets out a sharp, desperate groan and then comes all over Fraser's fingers, and then it's his turn, his turn to close his eyes and rest his forehead against Hartman's shoulder and think _Mine_ to himself again. _Mine, Ray. **Mine.**_

When they're both finished, both satisfied, Fraser draws back and throws the condom into the toilet; he wipes himself clean with a few sheets of toilet paper and puts himself back together. It doesn't take long. He's had enough time to practice since he and Ray broke up.

"You were--" Hartman rests his forehead against the wall, not even trying to clean himself up yet. "He didn't tell me," Hartman murmurs.

"Yes, well, he probably hasn't told you a lot of things," Fraser says, voice cool and composed and rather carefully neutral. He thinks back to the number of times people have said he doesn't have a poker face, the times they've told him he couldn't bluff worth a damn--and they're right. He can't. He's just not bluffing right now. He doesn't give a shit.

He lets himself out of the bathroom and goes to the bar, settling up--the drinks were worth every cent. While he's paying, Vecchio comes up behind him, putting a hand on Fraser's shoulder.

"Tell me you did not just do that," he murmurs.

"I'm afraid I have to go," Fraser says. "Perhaps you can give Dewey many happy returns for me."

"Don't you fucking do this," Vecchio whispers fiercely. "Don't you walk out that door without going back in there and making sure he can walk out of there on his own two feet--"

Fraser looks up at Ray, and whatever Ray sees in his eyes, it makes him take his hand off Fraser's shoulder. He doesn't step back--he doesn't even draw his hand fully away from Fraser--but he stops touching him.

"It's one thing if it's Kowalski," Vecchio says quietly. "Kowalski, you know, we _tried_ , me and Stella. But the little fucker makes his own decisions. But his partner? Jesus, Fraser..."

"Andrew was perfectly capable of making his own decisions, too--"

"After _five drinks_. Which you put into him."

" _Ask_ him," Fraser says, jaw clenched. "You ask him if he wanted that. Ask him. Write me up on charges if he says no; I won't contest it. But you go to him and you look in his eyes and you _ask_ him if that was what he wanted. See what he says."

"He never stood a goddamned chance and you know it," Vecchio says. "You know what you do to people. Should I consider myself lucky you never came after me? Or should I just wait for it? Am I waiting for that, Benny? Huh?"

Fraser closes his eyes and looks down at the floor, and he reaches up and rubs at his eyebrow. It shouldn't be possible--he shouldn't be able to feel shame right now, neither shame nor guilt, because he did _nothing wrong_ , nothing, Andrew asked him for it, Andrew _begged_ him--but he can't stand the thought of Vecchio _waiting for that_ , and he shakes his head.

"Ray, I would never do anything to hurt you," he whispers. "Never."

"Wish you'd make that promise to _yourself_ ," Vecchio whispers back. He reaches out and drags Fraser into a hug, in spite of the fact that they're here in the bar, here in public. "Get out of here. I'll make it right, okay? I'll take care of it."

"Ray, I'm sorry--"

"Don't. Don't apologize to me, Benny, it ain't me you owe." Vecchio slaps him hard on the back. "Get."

Fraser nods and takes one last look around the club. Stella's staring at him, eyes narrowed, hands folded together on the table, knuckles white. Ray's looking at him, confused and just this side of angry--but unable to connect the dots just yet, Fraser can see that from here.

Hartman comes out of the bathroom, a little shaky, a little unsteady. He doesn't look at Fraser even for a second, instead walking back to Ray's table, and Ray stares at him for a few seconds and then spins in his chair, staring at Fraser. He goes red all over, face splotchy, and Fraser grits his teeth and looks away. The dots line up now, he supposes.

He nods at Vecchio, who sighs and steps out of his way. It's starting to rain as Fraser steps outside, but he doesn't hail a cab. He'll walk.

 _-end-_


End file.
